


Alone in the Psychosphere

by hammer



Category: True Detective
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Butt Plugs, Drabble, Loneliness, Male Solo, Masturbation, No Spoilers, Season 1, Sexual Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-10 01:51:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5564386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hammer/pseuds/hammer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rust has a moment of weakness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone in the Psychosphere

**Author's Note:**

> Quickly written after watching season 1 and being unable to ship Rust with anyone but himself.
> 
> Thanks to my wonderful beta, Rochester.

Rust would rather he didn't, but he finally gets affected by all the figurative and literal sex in the air; the hooker's offer, the smell of pussy on Hart, his date's body, warm and feeling so _real_ against him as they danced. He yearns to receive the sensory signals from a touch.

To get those endorphins going.

To activate that underused part of his brain.

To let go for a moment and believe a chemical lie.

From his chair, he sends the file he's holding flying to the counter top. It's warm tonight, and he only has his undershirt on; he closes his eyes and runs his left hand along his right bicep. He squeezes it hard, and then runs his blunt fingernails down his forearm; he breaks out into goosebumps under his own touch.

“This is a fucking distraction,” he drawls out loud, as if Marty were here to listen to his ramblings. “I better fucking take care of this.”

His cock is half-hard in his pants. He could just shove them down and jerk off until all the sexual tension melted away, but he wants more. He suddenly wishes he had someone. He wants things he doesn't have. Things he doesn't deserve to have.

His pants soon come off, and then he ponders the pros and cons of the bed versus the chair. The bed wins, because his sheets are the closest thing to someone else's skin he's going to come in contact with. The thought, which might make a grown man cry, makes him smirk.

He lies down, sprawled on his bed, in his stark apartment, staring at the white ceiling for a few seconds. His cock throbs with even more need, and Rust rolls his eyes at it. He closes them right afterward, to better shut off the world around him.

He doesn't bring images to mind. No old flames and not his ex-wife. Not his date, not the hooker either. No rough young men he'd seduced to get a case closed; even the ones he'd actually enjoyed fucking.

And certainly not Marty and his fucked up love life.

No; he concentrates on the now, the sensations inside his own body, that meat alive with the illusion of uniqueness and so easily defeated by a clever cocktail of neurotransmitters. _So weak_.

He slips a hand under his shirt, over his abs and over his chest, feeling the bump of his nipples and the lines of old scars. It feels good; his free hand joins the other, and he runs both of them, fingers splayed wide, all over his torso.

He feels foolish; he sighs and reminds himself there's no shame in it.

It's like breathing, eating, or going to the bathroom; a simple bodily function. He turns his head to the side, and pinches one of his nipples. The resulting flash of pain sends a jolt of pleasure to his cock that makes him rock his hips, and his mind vacant.

 _Yes_.

He keeps one hand on his chest, his fingers tugging at a hard nipple as he slides the other down to his crotch; he shudders as it slides over his belly.

“Fuck,” he groans, thinking that would be even better if it was someone else's hand; anyone's.

He cups his cock and balls through his boxers, tipping his head back and jerking his hips up into his own touch.

 _Pathetic_.

Again, he longs for a presence. A human being; male or female. He never really cared which; they were made of the same clay, only shaped differently.

Just someone reaching out to him. Someone warm, and real. And thoroughly _not_ him. Someone physically separate from him, fooled by their own sense of uniqueness.

“Christ's sake,” he whispers, irritated that he'd deprived his body like this for so long. It blunted his mind and made him vulnerable. But none of this would matter soon.

He scratches at his chest and looks down as he slips his hand past the elastic of his boxers. He stares down at his own swollen cock as he takes himself in hand. Its slit is leaking precum as its shaft throbs, hot and so fucking hard between his fingers.

He pumps it a few times, and then lets it go long enough to spit in his hand; once, then twice when it's not slippery enough.

He masturbates in long, slow strokes for a moment. Carried away by the sheer pleasure of it all, he cups his balls, and gently tugs at them. Then he spreads his thighs to press against his perineum.

It feels good too, it makes him greedy.

He brings both hands to his face. First, he sucks in two fingers, covering them with saliva, then he spits again in the palm of his other hand. He bends one of his knees and reaches down, looking forward to feeling his slick fingers against his hole.

Driven by lust, he rubs circles around it, sliding his fist up and down his cock... So good... _More_.

His eyes snap open. He slides off the bed, and looks around the room, trying to think through the fog of his arousal. His cock bobs as he makes his way to the closet. He finds the box he was looking for tucked next to the metal case holding the remnants of his undercover biker identity.

He brings it to the bed. He grabs a bottle of lubricant from it, and a butt plug.

Rust figured out early on that stimulating his ass, which was rife with nerve endings, and his prostate, made his orgasms more intense, more satisfying. He always wondered if those claiming anal sex was unnatural had ever dabbled in it. Probably not, because then, they would have to explain why nature, evolution, God – whatever they called it – had decided to make sticking things up your ass feel so fucking good.

Rust lies back down and pushes the lubed toy in, without any other preparation. The burning sensation feels divine, satisfying, because he's already so far gone. He slowly slides it all the way to the hilt. Leaving it in place, he jerks off, feeling full, his small hole deliciously stretched.

Heat creeps on his cheeks; his chest is burning up in growing splotches. His breath becomes shorter. He pumps his erection faster, his free hand traveling from his nipples, to his balls, then to the base of the toy which he pulls and pushes lightly to tease his hole.

He's almost sorry that the pain is fading, but he has no time to get a bigger toy from the box. He knows it's coming, and soon. He's felt this same moment of fleeting happiness before, a temporary chemically manufactured paradise.

But paradise nonetheless.

It feels real, but he knows it isn't. It would be gone soon. What was the difference between _this_ and the drugs he used to take?

He lets his head fall back into the pillow, his minds blissfully blank.

Leaving it all behind.

Liberated for what was a drop in the sea of time.

Lost in it. So fucking _good_...

 _Oblivion_.

Rust comes, moaning as his body seizes. He can feel his eyes rolling back in their sockets, his asshole spasming around the toy, his cock pulsing, his cum spurting out with ridiculous force and striping his chest and belly.

He lies there for a long moment, savoring the seeping boneless feeling, the tingling in his toes and fingertips, paying attention to the pleasurable pulsating of his body as it slowly fades to nothing.

With a sigh, he removes the plug and makes his way to the bathroom to clean up. He puts on a fresh pair of boxers, picks up the file from the counter and sits down on the chair.

Now that his mind is clear, he can work.


End file.
